


Stumbling Across Its Bleak Ending

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-30
Updated: 2006-06-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Spoilers for Devil's Trap. Takes place in the same universe as Guardians of a Rare Thing and The World About to Come. Fifth in the Down to the End series.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Stumbling Across Its Bleak Ending**  
SPN Sam/Dean  
5,519 words  
  
**Notes:** Spoilers for _Devil's Trap_. Takes place in the same universe as [Guardians of a Rare Thing](http://esorlehcar.livejournal.com/346885.html#cutid1) and [The World About to Come](http://esorlehcar.livejournal.com/354919.html), but it's not at all necessary to read those to follow this.  
  
This was inspired in part by Joseph Arthur's _[ Invisible Hands](http://www.thechicagoloop.net/esorlehcar/spn/mp3/Invisible%20Hands.mp3)_ (MP3 link, right-click-save, please), though it is not not not not **not** songfic.  
  
Huge thanks to [ ](http://mcee.livejournal.com/profile)[**mcee**](http://mcee.livejournal.com/) for excellent beta duty, and to [ ](http://merryish.livejournal.com/profile)[**merryish**](http://merryish.livejournal.com/) and [ ](http://cindyjade.livejournal.com/profile)[**cindyjade**](http://cindyjade.livejournal.com/) for general encouragement and handholding.  
  
  
  
Dean leaves on a Monday.  
  
It's cold in the gray pre-dawn light. The wind is sharp and damp, promising rain, and Dean shivers as he walks through the trash-strewn parking lot to the Impala. Last night's motel is behind him, and if he turned around he'd see the door to their (Sam's) room, all peeling puke-green paint and splintered wood, like it's been kicked in a few more times than is healthy. If he turned around, he'd see the "42" on the doorframe, he'd remember Sam's laugh when he saw the room number, and think of his brother curled on the hard mattress, hair in his face and looking all of about five years old.  
  
He doesn't turn around.   
  
He left Sam a wad of bills, nearly $800. Not quite everything Dean had, but most of it. He left it on the nightstand, like Sam's nothing more than a cheap whore, and he hated to do it, knows how pissed Sam will be. But he wants Sam to see it right away, doesn't want him to worry about money on top of everything else. It's not a lot, but it's enough. They're not far from California, and Sam's got friends. He'll land on his feet.  
  
He left his pendant, slipped it carefully around Sam's neck, because Sam can never be safe enough.  
  
He didn't leave a note. There's a lot he wants to say -- _I'm sorry_ and _You deserve better than this_ and _Be happy, Sammy, please_ \-- but the words are different written down, cheap and powerless. He'll be damned if his last words to his brother are straight out of a break-up scene on Lifetime, and there's nothing he could say to make Sam forgive him anyway. Nothing that could make Sam understand.   
  
It's warmer in the car, out of the wind, but not by much. He shivers again before he can stop himself, and his stomach churns at the smell of stale french fry grease from their dinner the night before. It's too early in the morning to be _alive_ , and much as Dean loves his baby, he can think of a million places he'd rather be. Sam isn't a hundred feet away, sleep-warm and tangled up in blankets, and it would be so easy to walk back, crawl into bed and wrap himself around his brother. He starts the car instead.  
  
The Impala never quite recovered from being broadsided by a semi. He'd tried his damnedest, he and Sam together -- the entire summer at Bobby's, sleeping in a spare room that felt more like a bunker and spending the long, quiet days out back, rebuilding bit by bit -- and she runs well enough, but she whines more than she used to and rattles like hell when he gets above sixty. Sam had laughed himself sick when he realized Dean was doomed to abide by the speed limit, and Dean hadn't even been able to get pissed. It was too good to hear Sammy laugh again.  
  
He shakes off the memory, and very deliberately does not look in the rearview mirror as he pulls out of the lot.  
  
***  
  
Dean is two hundred miles away before his phone rings. He doesn't need to see the display to know who's calling. It rings again and again, over and over, and by the time it stops there are twelve messages on his voicemail, his lower lip is swollen and bloody, and he's got four neat half-moon gouges on his palm. It's been four hours since he woke with Sam curled up against him, eight hours since he watched Sam come with Dean's name on his lips and Dean's cock inside him, and he thinks he'll break apart if he can't hear Sam's voice one more time. But Sam will be furious, and worse, he'll be pleading, and Dean's never been strong enough to tell him no.  
  
He pulls over and deletes the messages unheard, though he can't quite make himself turn off his phone. When he starts the car again, his hands shake on the wheel.  
  
His phone doesn't ring again.  
  
***  
  
He drives for thirty hours straight. He drinks too much coffee and forgets to eat. When he can't keep his eyes open any longer he pulls into a rest stop and sleeps in the back seat.  
  
He dreams of fire, of silt-gray ash against white snow. When he wakes he reaches for Sam, and the hollow ache that swells when his fingers brush the leather of the upholstery is too big to fit inside his chest. He wants to scream, to rage, to kill things. He wants to wrap himself around Sammy and hold on until he forgets where he ends and Sam begins.   
  
He drives.  
  
***  
  
After three days of rest stops and convenience stores, Dean caves and gets a motel room. He's got a shiny new credit card with a name Sam's never heard of and $30 in his wallet, but there's a bar across town with a pool table and a whole cadre of mulleted good ol' boys just dying to teach a yankee pretty boy a thing or two, and he rakes in $300 before the night is over. When he leaves, Joe Bob and John Boy and Jimmy Dean -- or whatever the fuck their names are, he can never tell hicks apart -- are waiting for him in the parking lot with a crowbar, and the look on their faces when Dean pulls his shiny new Glock is possibly the funniest thing he's ever seen.  
  
Dad's life insurance hadn't been much, but it bought what they needed to fix the car and beef up their arsenal, and Dean thinks Dad would have approved.   
  
They're backing away, three sad little men who look like walking advertisements for "You Might Be a Redneck If," and Dean contemplates playing with them a little, but he's too fucking tired. "Get out of here, you pussies," he says, and they scramble, glowering and spitting threats but falling all over themselves to get away from the gun.  
  
It's a shame about the crowbar, really. Dean could have used a good bare-knuckled brawl.  
  
***  
  
Another night, another town, another bar. Dean cleans up at poker, buys a round for the house, and downs shots of Jack until he can't stand up. He wakes up in bed with the bartender, who's blonde and stacked with bald pussy and a clit ring, which is hotter than anything has a right to be.   
  
There hasn't been anyone else since Sam, but Sam is gone, Sam is on the road to the life he's always wanted, and she is here. When she palms him to hardness he rolls her over and shoves into her, fucks her until she screams.  
  
He eats her out afterwards, eats his own come out of her dripping pussy, vaguely realizing that he hadn't even thought about a condom but too far gone to care all that much. She moans and grinds into his face, and he thinks, _I taste like Sammy_ , and it's a sharp kick to the balls. His half-hard cock wilts, and a wave of nausea rolls through his belly, like his body just realized it's supposed to be hung over.  
  
He makes her come quickly -- amazing how much the clit ring helps with that -- and is out the door five minutes later, muttering apologies and inanities.  
  
***  
  
He doesn't hunt, at first. It's not a conscious choice, exactly, he just doesn't hold still long enough to let himself think about it. And there's Sam, who is a stubborn son of a bitch, who might still be looking instead of heading back to Stanford like he should be. Safer to stay away from the places Sam will think to look.  
  
But he finds a werewolf in Montana almost by accident, and wasting it after a month without a hunt is better than sex. He pulls the trigger and he feels whole, and maybe Sam would have a field day with what that says about his psyche, but Dean's never been a college boy and the unexamined life is just fine with him.  
  
After that he starts hunting with a vengeance. There's a lot out there to waste and it's easier when staying alive isn't exactly at the top of your priority list. He racks up a higher body count in two months than he and Sam managed in a year, and for the first time, he thinks, _I can do this_.   
  
But he feels Sam's absence like a toothache, sharp, grating, constant. He sees Sam's smile when he closes his eyes, hears Sam's laugh beneath the din in a hundred interchangeable bars.   
  
In Tennessee, he stands over a pyre of burning, salted bones and thinks suddenly of the weight of Sam's cock on his tongue. There's a noise Sam makes -- a quiet little gasp, all breathy, shocked pleasure -- right before he comes, and it plays on repeat in Dean's head, making him hard, making him ache.  
  
He jerks off into the dirt, and bites his tongue bloody to keep from saying Sam's name.  
  
***  
  
He dreams of Sam. Not sex dreams, which he would have expected -- just fragments, half-forgotten memories. Baby Sammy, barely walking, raising his chubby hands to be carried and snuggling happily into Dean's arms when Dean picked him up. Sam at five, face alight with joy and pride when Dean let go of the bike Sam was riding and Sam kept his balance. Sam at thirteen, already sullen and surly with Dad but all shy smiles when he showed Dean his report card with its neat row of As. Sam at fifteen, all shining eyes and glowing face when Dean said, "You did good, kid," backstage after wolf-whistling for five minutes at the end of _Our Town_.  
  
Sam by his hospital bed, face bruised and battered, holding his hand. Sam crying, helpless and broken, as they scattered their father's ashes; Sam holding on to him afterwards, when the last of Dad was gone and Dean couldn't cry or breathe or see, whispering Dean's name and rocking him like a child, half-carrying him back to the truck and then letting him pretend he'd never broken down at all. The bitter, triumphant twist of Sam's mouth when the final bullet slammed into the murdering son of a bitch that stole their parents and its evil yellow eyes went dark.   
  
And Sam in the aftermath, harder and faster, quicker to steal, quicker to kill, exercising his newly discovered powers until he could strike out with nothing but his mind, precise and deadly. No more mentions of Stanford, no more emails to college friends. Just the hunt. Just rock salt and credit card fraud and ammunition stocks and hours of dirty, passionate, unbridled fucking. Just Sam and Dean against the world.  
  
It's the closest Dean's ever had to happily ever after, and it's pretty fucking funny that if Sammy mattered a little less he could still have it.   
  
He can't be blamed for taking so long to notice. Or at least, he can't be blamed _much_. At first they were both lost, buried in a haze of grief and pain. There was the demon, tracking it, trapping it, sending it snivelling back into hell. There was Dean's gut-clenching terror, silent and overpowering, that Sam would leave now that the job was done, and the shock of sharp joy when he realized Sam had made his choice without a word, that his brother was his -- _his_! -- in a way he'd always dreamed of but never really thought possible.  
  
And then there was nothing but the bright, shining present. They were invincible, they'd killed the unkillable and lived to tell the tale. They had a trunk full of weapons and a sweet car and an endless, open road and each other, and it was the world.  
  
He can't remember the first time he realized Sam was unhappy. He thinks it was probably longer ago than he'd like to admit, that he'd pushed the knowledge away rather than face the thought of giving Sam up, of letting Sam have the life he'd always wanted. The life he deserved.  
  
There were a million little signs, in retrospect. The way Sam's eyes lingered too long on kids his own age, happy little bands who'd scoff at fear of the dark. How quiet he got after hunts where they spent too much time with mundanes. The way his face twisted -- quick, subtle, but unmistakable -- when he got a note from Rebecca that babbled happily about her wedding plans and the joys and pains of grad school.  
  
But there were other signs, too, and they made it harder to see. There was this soft look Sam sometimes got on his face when he watched Dean but didn't think Dean could see him. There was quiet early-morning sex, sticky and sweet and almost embarassingly tender, and Sam falling asleep against Dean's shoulder as they watched bad horror movies on basic cable, and Dean's head in Sam's lap, Sam's fingers curled in his hair, while they watched late-night Simpsons reruns. The first time Dean called Sam "baby," more accident than design, Sam gasped and jerked and came so hard his whole body shuddered, though Dean had only just slid into him.  
  
Harder to see, but not impossible. Not given enough time, and time's the one thing Dean's always had in spades. He remembers the exact moment he knew he had to let Sam go. A hunt in Oklahoma, a suburb and a relocated graveyard, and for fuck's sake, is there anyone who hasn't seen _Poltergeist_? The house hit hardest was owned by a blonde woman, the wrong side of fifty and a little too heavy to count as pleasantly plump, but with a soft, sweet smile and eyes that lit up when she talked about her son, twenty-three and brilliant, top of his class at Harvard Law and his whole life in front of him.   
  
Dean thought the kid sounded like a tool, but the look that flickered across Sam's face, helpless, hopeless jealousy, so much mute longing, slammed into Dean's belly like a fist. It was gone in an instant, Sam's polite mask back in place, but it burned its way into Dean's mind and stayed there. Sam was quiet for the rest of the day, and he snapped at their waitress at dinner. When they got back to the motel, he fucked Dean against the wall, leaving teeth marks on his shoulders and finger-shaped bruises on his hips, and when they slept, he rolled away, as far to the edge of the bed as possible.  
  
Dean spent the night staring at the blank expanse of his brother's back, wanting to touch him but too afraid Sam would wake. Dean's a selfish man, he's always known this, he takes what he wants and he doesn't apologize for it, but Sam's happiness is too high a price to pay, and the decision was easy to make. He'd had two years. It wasn't enough -- nothing ever could be -- but it was two years more than he ever thought he'd have, and Dean learned a long time ago to take what he can get.  
  
It was surprisingly easy to put a plan in motion. To hustle a little more pool, bet bigger on a few more poker games, squirrel the extra cash away. To find a job in southern Oregon, right by the California border, one painless bus ride from Palo Alto. It only took three weeks, give or take, and if Dean held Sam a little harder, fucked him a little rougher, kissed him with a little more intensity as he planned his escape, Sam never noticed. Psychic Sammy, who's gotten good enough that he can tell without even thinking when strangers are lying, pull the truth from their heads with nothing but a look, and he'd never noticed a thing.  
  
***  
  
In Colorado, Dean kills something he's never seen before, something big and ugly that's been eating hikers and leaving their gnawed bones for the forest rangers. It dissolves into a torrent of foul-smelling slime when he buries his knife in its chest, drenching Dean from head to toe.  
  
After he's peeled off his clothes and showered in scalding hot water for about three hours, he goes through his wallet, mourning the leather sodden beyond repair, and he finds a picture of Sam between directions to a strip club in Dallas and a long-expired credit card in the name of Benjamin Weintraub.  
  
Sam's about sixteen, his smile wide and clear, too thin from his recent growth spurt and trying to hide it under too many bulky layers. Dean's heart constricts in his chest, he blinks fiercely and that night he lies awake for hours, staring into the dark and trying not to think.   
  
He tucks the picture into the new wallet he buys, cheap vinyl, the best he can find on short notice. He doesn't pull it out again.  
  
***  
  
In New Orleans, he finds a nest of vamps too dumb to know the one thing they're vulnerable to. Once they've led him inside with dark promises of eternal life and endless sensuality, like he's one of the dumbass Anne Rice vampire fanatics who flock to the city, he pours them a round of dead man's blood he swears he drained from a warlock and that will increase their power tenfold. When they fall to the floor nearly in unison he cuts their heads off one by one.  
  
He celebrates with a bottle of tequila and a girl named Mandy, who does amazing things with her tongue and doesn't seem to care that Dean won't look her in the eye. He comes twice, once down her throat and once in her ass, rubbing her clit until she squeaks and sighs and spasms, and he doesn't even have to ask her to leave afterwards.  
  
It's a good day.  
  
***  
  
He gets back from dinner at a world-class dive in some one-horse town in North Carolina, planning to grab his jacket and hit the bar, but he's barely inside his motel room door when a fist smashes into his face. He gropes blindly for a weapon, fear and adrenaline singing through his veins, but when he gets a look at his attacker years of training fall dead at his feet.  
  
"I'm _psychic_ , you stupid son of a bitch," Sam says. "Did you really think I wouldn't find you?" And then his fist slams into Dean's face again and the world goes black.  
  
***  
  
Dean wakes with his wrists and ankles tied to the bed. He's been stripped to his boxers, he can feel an ice pack balanced on the pillow against his head, and Sam is leaning over him, inking a small circular design into the skin over his hipbone.  
  
"Get off me," Dean rasps, but Sam ignores him and keeps drawing, so he tries again, reaching for the dangerous tone that always makes Sam sit up and take notice. "What the fuck are you doing to me?  
  
"Location charm," Sam says, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. When he straightens, Dean can see his pendant around Sam's neck, and his heart gives a frantic little stutterjump he chooses to ignore. "Don't want you getting lost again."  
  
Dean tries to struggle, to throw Sam off, but he's completely immobilized. Sam just grins, and Dean glowers. "Ink washes off, Sammy," he says darkly, and Sam nods thoughtfully.  
  
"I checked -- there's a tattoo parlor two towns over," he says. "We'll make it permanent before we move on."  
  
"What?" Dean sputters. "No!"   
  
"One for me, too," Sam says calmly. "It'll be stronger when we're linked. I can find you anyway, obviously, but it'll be a hell of a lot quicker this way. Should help with hunting, too."  
  
Dean just stares. "You honestly think you're going to drag me into a tattoo parlor and make me sit still long enough for that?"  
  
"No," Sam says. "I think you're going to walk in and sit down and hold still all on your own, and if you do it without too much bitching I'll suck your cock when you're done."  
  
"Thought I was the one with the head injury," Dean says flatly.  
  
Sam winces, tiny but perceptible. "Yeah, sorry about that," he says, though he doesn't sound all that sorry. "I didn't know how else to make you hold still long enough."  
  
Dean opens his mouth to retort, but Sam cuts him off.  
  
"No, Dean," he says. "No. For once in your goddamn miserable stubborn life, you are going to listen to me. You can keep your mouth shut or I can gag you, I don't really care which."  
  
Dean can't really help it, he mutters, "When'd you get so kinky?" half-under his breath, but he knows Sam well enough to know he isn't kidding, and he subsides at Sam's warning glance.  
  
"I love you," Sam says, and Dean reacts before he can stop himself, eyes rolling and "Oh, _christ_ , Sammy" slipping out of his mouth.  
  
" _Gag_ , Dean," Sam says, low and dangerous, and Dean sinks his teeth into his lower lip and settles for glaring as hard as he can. "I love you," Sam says again, and his voice is hard and sharp. "I love you, and I need you, and this is where I belong. And if you ever try to leave for my own good again I swear to fucking god I will put you in the hospital."  
  
"Who says it was for you?" Dean mutters, but Sam just rolls his eyes.  
  
"Psychic, you freak show," he says. "I could feel you angsting from three states away."  
  
"Bullshit," Dean says. "That's fucking bullshit, Sammy, I planned for _weeks_ and you never had a clue--"  
  
"You think I'd root around in your head just because I can?" Sam yells. "Jesus, Dean." He sounds exhausted all of a sudden, and he sinks to the bed beside Dean, lays a hand on Dean's chest. "I want what you'll give me, not what I can take."  
  
"Didn't seem to bother you this time around," Dean says, but he can't manage any real heat, and Sam's grin is both rueful and amused.  
  
"Yeah, well," he says. "Special circumstances." He touches Dean's face, almost absurdly gentle, runs his fingers along the line of Dean's jaw, his cheek, his lips. "God, I missed you," Sam says. "Felt like I was being ripped apart."  
  
"Jesus, Sam, you been reading Harlequins or something?" Dean shudders, but Sam just slides his hand into Dean's hair and looks at him steadily, and Dean sighs. "You gonna untie me?"  
  
"You gonna stay put if I do?" Sam asks, and Dean finally shrugs as best he can and nods. There's time enough for real decisions later on.  
  
Sam makes quick work of the ropes, and his hands stroke apologetically over the indented skin on Dean's wrists and ankles. Dean sits up slowly, wincing slightly as he moves his head, and they just look at each other for endless seconds before Dean breaks. He's not strong enough to say no, he never has been, and he says, "Sammy," his voice sounding far too much like a plea, and then Sam is surging forward, pressing Dean down to the bed as Dean wraps himself around him.  
  
It's like breathing after being too long underwater. Sam tastes exactly like Dean remembers, his body still fits against Dean's like they were made for this, and his soft groan when his cock rubs against Dean's thigh almost makes Dean come then and there.  
  
It doesn't take long. Sam's fully dressed and Dean's still in his boxers, but neither of them is willing to stop long enough to get their clothes off, and they kiss and clutch and thrust against each other until they collapse together in a sated, sweaty heap.  
  
"Fuck," Dean says blearily, when Sam finally moves away and starts peeling his clothes off. "I haven't come in my pants since I was sixteen."  
  
Sam laughs, works Dean's boxers off and uses them to wipe Dean clean, then himself. "Jess made me once," he says. "She put on this teeny tiny schoolgirl outfit and white cotton panties and then she gave me a ruler and bent--"  
  
"Sammy!" Dean says. He can't decide if he's more amazed or jealous, but his dick is twitching either way. "Didn't think you had it in you."  
  
Sam grins as he climbs back into bed, settles comfortably in Dean's arms, head against Dean's chest. "Actually, I'd been meaning to ask you," he says. "If we could find a cheerleader uniform in your size--"  
  
"Finish that thought and die," Dean growls and Sam laughs again, bright and happy.   
  
***  
  
Dean's licking his way down Sam's body, leisurely rediscovering every inch of skin, when Sam says, "Too late for the tattoo tonight, but after breakfast tomorrow...?" and Dean stiffens and pulls away.  
  
"Sam, I don't--" he starts, but Sam slaps a hand over his mouth before he can get any further.  
  
"Dean," he says, voice tight and just this side of angry. "We can play this one of two ways. We can get our tattoos and I can remember how to breathe again, or you can live with me in your space and in your head 24/7 until I know for sure you aren't you going to pull this bullshit again. Your choice."  
  
A million biting comebacks war for supremacy in Dean's head, but Sam the psychic wonder will see through every one, so Dean just sighs and tries the truth for once.   
  
"Sammy," he says, and goddamn if his voice doesn't crack a little when he says it. It's pathetic and humiliating and Dean thinks he'd rather be smeared with honey and slowly devoured by ants than have this conversation, but he can't see any way out of it. "This isn't what you want, this isn't--"  
  
" _Fuck you_ ," Sam says. He knocks Dean off and surges to his feet, all hard, blazing fury. "Fuck you, Dean, and fuck your goddamn condescending shit. You don't get to decide what I want and you don't fucking get to decide how I live my life."  
  
"You. Were. Miserable," Dean says, and he's off the bed as well, in Sam's face and spitting each word like a bullet. "You were fucking miserable, Sammy, you hated it and it was only a matter of time before you started hating _me_..."  
  
"You're so fucking stupid it's amazing you've managed to stay alive this long," Sam says. "Maybe I want more, Dean, okay? Maybe I want a life that's got more in it than fast food and stolen credit cards and fleabag motels. But I don't want it without _you_ , asshole, and I'd rather spend the rest of my fucking life this way than spend another day without you in it."  
  
"I can't ask you to--"   
  
"You didn't," Sam says fiercely. "You never asked, Dean. I made this decision on my own, like the goddamn adult you should realize I am, and you can accept that or I can tie you to the fucking bed again."  
  
"Can we talk about this new fetish?" Dean says, and Sam snorts, but he sits down again, and after a minute Dean drops to the bed beside him.   
  
"This is it," Sam says, and for the first time his voice sounds unsteady. "Me and you, Dean, this is all we've got."  
  
Dean thinks, _You deserve more_. There's not enough money, booze, or pussy in the world to make him speak the thought aloud, but his fucking psychic bitch of a baby brother catches it anyway, says, "Not more than you, Dean. Never more than you."  
  
He wants to argue, and he wants to push Sammy back down to the bed and fuck him until neither of them can move. He sighs instead, says, "This is what I get unless I get the tattoo?"   
  
And Sam grins like he's just won the lottery. " _Until_ you get the tattoo, Dean."   
  
***  
  
Dean sleeps dreamlessly, as much skin pressed against his brother as humanly possible, and he wakes to Sam's soft, insistent kisses.  
  
***  
  
"Mother _fucker_ ," Dean grits out.  
  
"You need me to hold your hand, princess?" Sam laughs from somewhere behind him.  
  
"You're next, you smug fuck," Dean says darkly. He looks down at the bearded Hell's Angel reject drilling ink into his hip. "How much fucking longer is this going to take?"  
  
The asswipe doesn't even look up. "It's a lot of detail and hard lines," he says shortly. "I told you it was going to hurt."  
  
"I hate you," Dean says to Sam.   
  
"Stop being such a baby," Sam says.  
  
Sam doesn't so much as blink when his turn comes, and Dean is going to make him pay for that in ways Sam can't begin to imagine.  
  
***  
  
"Blowjob," Dean demands the second they're back in the Impala.   
  
"You whined like a little girl," Sam says. "You don't deserve a blowjob."  
  
"I will kill you in your sleep," Dean says.  
  
Sam smiles brightly. "Be nice, or you won't get fucked either."  
  
***  
  
He's naked, spread out on the bed, and his senses are overwhelmed with _Sam_. The length of Sam's body, sprawled between Dean's legs, Sam's hard belly against his cock, Sam's rough tongue against his nipple.   
  
"Please... Sam..." he gasps, but Sam won't be hurried. His teeth clamp down hard around the nipple he's tormenting, and when Dean cries out, he moves to the other, bites down even harder. He moves back and forth, teasing and torturing, until Dean thinks he's going to lose his mind, then he moves further down, licking a stripe down Dean's chest and belly, slipping his tongue into Dean's belly button.   
  
When he _thankthegoodlordfuckingfinally_ closes his lips around the head of Dean's cock, Dean thinks maybe he can forgive Sam's stupid show-off stoicism after all, but Sam only gives him one hard suck, tongue lapping at the moisture on the tip, before he pulls back, laughing at the anguished wail Dean isn't fast enough to bite back.  
  
Dean opens his mouth to list all the ways he's going to make Sam suffer, but Sam's already pushing his legs up, spreading him open, and then he feels Sam's lips against his asshole, kissing it lightly, tracing it with his tongue before thrusting the tip inside.  
  
It takes Dean a moment to realize the ludicrous high-pitched keening sounds that fill the room are coming from _him_ , but he feels too fucking amazing to be embarrassed by the display. Sam fucks him with his tongue, licks and sucks and thrusts until Dean can't remember his own name and isn't all that sure of Sammy's, until Dean's whole world narrows to this, Sam's hands on his thighs and Sam's tongue in his ass and Sam and Sam and Sam.  
  
Sam hasn't touched his cock again, but Dean's sliding towards orgasm anyway, his cock shuddering and his balls pulling up tight. But then Sam's hands are around him like a vise, and Sam's voice is merciless as he says, "Oh, no. You don't get to come until I fuck you." Dean whines, desperate pleas spilling from his lips, hips pushing towards Sam's mouth again, and Sam releases him, face softening as he spreads a soothing hand across Dean's belly.  
  
"Just let me find the lube, baby," he says, and Dean says, "Don't need it, Sammy, please..." but Sam's already fumbling with the tube, slicking his cock with trembling hands and moving into position between Dean's legs. Sam slides in with one smooth thrust and they groan together. Dean's thighs lock around Sam's hips, his nails dig into Sam's back, and he pushes into Sam's thrusts with everything he has.  
  
Sam's hand closes around his cock and jerks him hard, and Sam says, "C'mon, Dean, do it, come for me," and Dean comes so hard he thinks the top of his dick might have blown off. Sam thrusts again, hips jerking once, twice, three times more, and then he shudders and shouts and comes and comes.  
  
Sam collapses on top of him, still buried inside, and they pant against each other's mouths for long moments before Dean mumbles, "You're heavy," and Sam slips out and off.   
  
***  
  
Sam's nestled in his arms, half-asleep and sighing softly as Dean strokes every part of him he can reach. "Hey, Sammy?" Dean whispers, tangling his fingers in his brother's unruly hair.  
  
"Mmmm?" Sam says. He presses a soft kiss against Dean's shoulder.  
  
"You owe me a blowjob, you welshing bastard," Dean says, and Sam's surprised bark of laughter is the best sound Dean's ever heard.  
  
***  
  
It's a Thursday when they leave, branded with each other's bruises and with matching ink still healing against reddened skin.  
  
The sun is shining and Sammy's laughing and maybe Dean doesn't know where they're going or where they'll end up, but his brother is beside him, and nothing else matters.  
 

 

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